


Dāshrathi

by toujours_nigel



Category: The Ramayana
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 05:38:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their Brother's Keepers</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dāshrathi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [steelehearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelehearts/gifts).



He brought his brother’s slippers home, and put them on the throne. (“Are you a slave, my son who I would have made king?” your mother spat. “Are you bewitched?” She quieted under your eyes.)

He brought his brother’s slippers home, when crying at his feet did nought to help, and all his tears got a gentle reproof, and an iron-armed embrace. (“Go home,” he said, and looked lotus-eyed upon you, as though you had not lived with him years, and shared his burdens and his life, if never his expectations.)

He brought his brother’s slippers home, all the long journey with a stern demeanour and dry eyes. (You spent all your tears at his feet, while his favourite trained an arrow at you, strong in his knowledge of known loyalty.)

He brought his brother’s slippers home, and ruled in his absent stead. (You never looked to him for guidance, the brother who betrayed you as if in kindness, for all you felt him in every room.)

He brought his brother’s slippers home, and, in the kingdom won with guile for him, lived an ascetic life. (You look nothing like him, even in similar guise. You did not don it to be his reflection.)

He brought his brother’s slippers home. (That is why you will be remembered, and all anyone will know of you.)

 

****

 

Rāma was young, when they first fought Tārakā, and their father the King feared for him. (You were younger, and only your own mother trembled to let you go, Kaushalya too afraid for her son, Kaikeyi too insulted for hers.)

Rāma was fourteen when he wed Sitā, and she seven, a marriage of infants. (You were twelve, Urmilā six; you played with her toys on your wedding-night, and let her braid your hair.)

Rāma was the best-loved son, and adored brother, and his obedience broke hearts. (You would have turned parricide and fratricide and homicide for him.  For him, you would have shot an arrow into your father’s grieving heart, between your brother’s lowered eyes.)

Rāma at twenty-one, feted by a city, had the city, the kingdom, following him in sorrow as he walked from his palace. (You went of your own accord, and nobody cried for you—even your mother wept for Rāma, and your wife could barely see for tears.)

Rāma at thirty-five, garlanded by the gods, came victorious to his kingdom. (You were fourteen years without rest, and food, at his side, and he never knew it.)

Rāma brought you to life, when you lost it to Meghnād. (You walked into the river on his commands, and never looked back to see whether he shed tears for you.)


End file.
